


The Office

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Bones are both office workers that share the same bus stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Office

They stand at the bus stop together for nearly two months before they speak.  
  
Jim knows Tall-Dark-And-Handsome’s name is actually Leonard McCoy; it’s printed in boldface type on the man’s ID badge. McCoy clips it to his belt along with his bus pass, and his scowling face is visible in the thumbnail-sized photo. He’d like to say he noticed McCoy immediately, that the first time he turned up to the bus stop Jim couldn’t stop staring at him, but Jim is never really too awake at 7:05 in the morning, and he only realized he’d had company every day for the last two weeks much too late to ever try introducing himself in a totally-not-awkward-at-all sort of way. The window had passed.   
  
He watches him, though, which isn’t creepy, because Jim is not a stalker or a deranged madman. He just thinks McCoy is smokin’ hot. Jim likes to sit by the back door of the bus, for easy access, and he is pleased to note that McCoy always sits in the seat on the other side of the aisle from him.  
  
Through careful observation, Jim also notices McCoy has the enviable ability to immediately fall asleep during the journey and then wake up again moments before his stop. Jim knows this because they get off at the same one. They even go to the same building, though McCoy always heads to the elevators, while Jim continues through the lobby to the tiny office he populates with four other people, two of whom are named Bill.   
  
One day long after Jim has not  _given up_  on ever speaking to him but has merely  _accepted_  his fate, McCoy drops a thick purple file folder as he exits the bus. Jim catches up with him in the lobby. “Hey! You dropped this!” he cries, waving McCoy down like a winded matador.   
  
McCoy turns, eyebrow raised. “Oh. Thanks.” He reaches for the folder, but Jim doesn’t hand it over.   
  
“What is it?” Jim hears himself asking. “Is it worth anything if I keep it? Are you some sort of government agent with top secret clearance? Will I get ‘eliminated’ if I read it?”  
  
McCoy blinks at him, momentarily taken aback, before snorting. “Open it and take a look. I think you’re safe, kid.”  
  
Jim obliges, and finds pages of densely-scripted print covered in angry red pen marks that say things like ‘The who in the what now? Who taught you grammar, fuckhead?!’. The text itself looks like a hospital computer vomited random jargon into admittedly neat paragraphs. “Ew,” he says, making a face. “Is this a manual for MRI machines?”  
  
“Uh huh,” replies McCoy dryly, accepting the hastily-returned folder with a grin. “Riveting, I know. I edit technical manuals for the publishers on the fourth floor.”  
  
“No wonder you fall asleep on the bus every morning,” quips Jim, cursing himself inwardly, but McCoy just gives him a curious look.   
  
“I’ve considered marketing them as a sleep-aid, in the past,” McCoy says. “Well. See you.” He waves, and Jim waves back as McCoy leaves. Jim represses a sigh, and goes to his tiny office and tiny cubical and tiny job and tiny life.

McCoy says ‘hi’ the next day at the bus stop. The little voice in Jim’s brain that provides ongoing commentary on life emits a high-pitched squealing noise; Jim smiles his most charming smile and says ‘hi’ back.   
  
The day after that, McCoy nods to him, and nods off as usual. When Jim pulls the bell for their stop and gets to his feet, McCoy is still asleep. Jim bites his lip, mentally hikes up his balls, and then quickly shakes him awake. McCoy startles, his eyes wide.   
  
“Our stop,” says Jim, as the bus pulls over. “Sorry. Usually you wake up.”  
  
“Thanks,” says McCoy hoarsely, gathering his messenger bag and following Jim off, shaking his head dazedly, brown hair falling across his forehead. “I was up all night.” He waves a hand in front of his own face. “All I can see is red pen burned onto the inside of my eyelids.”  
  
“Tragic,” sympathizes Jim, pausing with McCoy in the lobby. “Hey – don’t get weirded out. Can I buy you lunch? I get an hour, at 12:30.”  
  
“Me too,” says McCoy, which isn’t an agreement, but it’s not a refusal, either. “But one thing, first.”  
  
“Yeah?” says Jim, confused.   
  
“Leonard McCoy,” says McCoy, holding out his hand.   
  
Jim takes it, noticing the ink stains on his fingers. “Jim Kirk,” he grins. “I’ve been calling you ‘Bones’ in my head, for, like, weeks now.”  
  
“Why?” asks McCoy.  
  
“Because you sleep like the dead,” says Jim, with satisfaction.   
  
McCoy groans. “That’s terrible. It doesn’t even make sense.”  
  
“I know,” says Jim. “Just so you know, lunch is on minimum wage, so it’ll be the two-dollar pizza special, and you’ll  _like_  it.”  
  
“I think I’ll manage,” replies McCoy, and he smiles.


End file.
